


Demons

by argle_fraster



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Not My Fault, they have a lot of sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argle_fraster/pseuds/argle_fraster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce goes to try to apologize for what's between them, and Natasha has specific ideas about working through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demons

_I'm sorry_ , he'd said. He'd meant it to be what it was - an apology. He was sorry every time she flinched when he was around, the way he saw her senses go on high alert; she carried herself differently around him, shoulders straighter and tighter. He didn't like seeing her like that - he didn't like the constant reminder of what he _was_.

But he hadn't expected _this_ when he went to apologize. He hadn't expected for Natasha's hands to curl around his wrists, leg up behind his neck. He hadn't expected to see the ceiling above her bed as the crimson of her hair distorted the overhead lights with a red hue.

"I just wanted to see if things were okay," he says, and it comes out more choked than anything else, because she's straddling his waist and he can feel the muscles in her thighs vibrating all the way up his torso.

"I need to work out my issues," she tells him. She kisses him, hard, tongue swiping in without much prelude, and Bruce wonders blindly, desperately, if this is how all her prey feels before she goes in for the kill - helpless, trapped to the mattress, and horribly aroused.

When she pulls away, she lets her teeth sink into his bottom lip, tugging, and Bruce groans. "And this is-"

"How I do that," she finishes.

There's a clink of metal around his wrists, then, replacing her hands; it's cold and hard and digs into the skin because it's much too tight.

"I didn't think handcuffs would be something you'd fancy," he says, and laughs, because when he tugs his hands away the pain shoots all the way up his arms - he won't try that again.

She takes his face between her hands, nails sharp against his jaw. "Are you going to freak out on me, Banner?"

"Freaking out's not high on the list right now," he whispers. He's not even sure she _hears_ the last bit, because she's kissing him again and swallowing the tail end of the sentence, and he's just caught in the sway of her breathing, like a ship pulled out by the undertow.

This is how she works through it. She's moving against him, every gasp her last, and he gets it - he does. He understands that when she's running her hands over his shoulders and pulling his shirt free, she's winning. She's beating the monster that's personified by her own fear.

The worst part is that he even respects it, though part of that might be due to the fact that her palm is skimming down his navel and slipping into his pants without much pretense. He groans, letting her, letting her tear him apart bone by bone just so she can put him back together the way she wants.

"Am I going to enjoy this lesson?" he asks, and she laughs against his lips.

When she rolls her hips around against his, he feels it all the way down to his toes. "You'd better," she says. "No worries. I'll make sure you do."

He does; he does when she's leaning over him, gasping the breath back into his lungs in rhythm with their motion, when she's pulling him up and away so the metal stings up his forearms. He does when she's chanting against the salt sheen on his cheek, _come on, Banner, come for me_ , when she's laughing afterwards like a nymph in the woods, wild and careless and fearless and free.


End file.
